Prognostications Poem by Artchil Daug

I blinked to see the horizon I sought
a light in the wilderness of the void,
giving life to the world the senses brought
in riddles I speak, that you can't avoid;

Approve of me the mantra of the real,
of a present the living past projects
and those what will be is now what I feel
being is not what our lined time protects;

But to be is not a talent bestowed
to arrogant man there is a breaking
from the fork of twilight being is owed
to suff'ring man this darkness is stealing;

For being doth provide a world with scopes
not for man to tinker with his false hopes.